


Winter

by little_luna



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crossover If You Squint, Developing Relationship, Eventual Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Eventual Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped Derek, M/M, Memory Loss, Mentions of psychological abuse, Scent Marking, Slow Build, mentions of physical abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-11 14:56:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5630638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_luna/pseuds/little_luna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was ten years old when his father was dispatched for an arson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea in my head for weeks and I finally got around to writing it. Many elements are going to be canon compliant, but as the story progresses, most are not. 
> 
> There's just the barest hint of a crossover in here, but it can easily be overlooked (kudos to anyone who figures it out).
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

He was ten years old when his father was dispatched for an arson.

 

_All available units to the 800 block of Woodfern Lane. Code 451. Ambulance and firefighters enroute._

 

The Sheriff had assured him it was a routine dispatch, teenagers who had wandered onto the preserve to stir up trouble. But Stiles had noticed the way his father’s smile was tight, his shoulders stiff with tension, officers around them were abandoning their reports, suiting up and barging out of the door like something was biting at their heels. More than necessary, more than routine.

 

 _I’ll be back soon, okay kiddo?_ He had told Stiles, quickly and with an urgency Stiles could just barely pick up, reminding him to be good, to finish his homework, to keep Officer Martin’s desk tidy.

 

But the Sheriff didn’t come back after an hour, or even after two. Melissa McCall came to the station before the third hour mark, Scott at her side, wearing the same clothes he had on earlier in school. Her expression was equally pinched, the smile she offered to Stiles was small and forced.

 

“You’re sleeping over!” Scott announced as soon as he had squeezed past the front desk, eyes excited and body vibrating with happiness. Stiles couldn’t muster the same enthusiasm. He looked to Melissa for something more.

 

She gave him another small smile, this time sad.

 

In the car, on the way to Scott’s, she explained that the Sheriff got held up with the dispatch, that he would be late coming back. It had happened in the past, Melissa showing up just before eight, picking up Stiles with Scott in tow. They would get to the house, Melissa fixing up dinner to fill Stiles’ empty belly, Stiles helping himself to a shower, and borrowing something of Scott’s to sleep in.

 

But this time, it felt different somehow. Stiles couldn’t understand the complexity of the situation then, but he could notice the way everyone seemed to be speaking with their eyes, the looks the deputies gave each other as they had suited up, the way his father had looked at Stiles, direct and lingering, the way Melissa looked worn and somber under the florescent lights of an empty station.

 

They were all saying something Stiles couldn’t comprehend.

 

And it seemed to last, the tension coiling tighter for days, until one afternoon, Stiles came home from school, and his father told him Laura Hale would be staying with them for the time being.

 

And it had all snapped, just like that.

 

\--

 

When it had been bought, the house was going to be a stepping stone for growth, a start for newlyweds, _home_ for a family one day. She had wanted two children, but when the cancer developed, she was thankful for just one. One boy, happy and healthy.

 

The house had three bedrooms, one for the Sheriff, one for Stiles, and a spare. The guest bedroom was at the disposal of anyone, although they hadn’t had an immediate need for it in years. The Sheriff kept it tidy, dusting and changing the sheets every few weeks, but mostly it was forgotten in the corner of the house.

 

Laura Hale arrived past Stiles’ bedtime, with hushed whispers and quiet footsteps, the creaking of the wooden floorboards as she passed by Stiles’ bedroom to the empty room down the hall. After that, Stiles couldn’t ignore the very new presence of another in his childhood home.

 

It didn’t feel like an intrusion, having her there, and if Stiles was honest, he didn’t notice much of a change in those first initial weeks. He knew Laura was _there_ , but he didn’t see her with any frequency. The Sheriff continued on with his long shifts, Stiles kept on in school, getting picked up by the bus and walking himself home on the days the sheriff couldn't pick him up and Melissa couldn't watch him. Their routine didn’t change in the slightest, that was the strangest aspect of it all.

 

But even then, Stiles’ natural curiosity couldn’t be piqued. He would find himself feet from the guest bedroom, restlessness particularly high after he had come home from school, wondering if he would ever see his house guest. And as if on cue, he would see shadows of movement from beneath the space where the door and the wooden flooring would hover between each other. They would be little flashes of blacks and grays, from Laura pacing, and suddenly stopping. It would get eerily quiet after that and Stiles would retreat, afraid he had somehow been found out.

 

The Sheriff would tell him that Laura had quite a lot to work through, that she had always been a very independent person, _the Hales are--were good people Stiles,_ he would say, _they were all very reserved, considerate people. She lost her entire family, it’s going to take time._

 

And Stiles could understand that, as much as Sheriff believed him to be too young to, he could.

 

\--

 

Laura Hale worked odd hours, Stiles believed. She would often be gone when he would leave for school, the guest bedroom door left ajar, still open when he would return.

 

He would sometimes hear her soft voice when she arrived back, the Sheriff welcoming her, letting her know there were leftovers, all very polite and collected.

 

She would thank him, and shuffle down the hall, the door clicking shut, where it would stay closed for the next few days.

 

Other times she would be gone for a days at a time, Stiles’ only indication being the same open door.

 

He would ask his father about it, where Laura would go, what she would do, why he hadn’t met her yet.

 

The Sheriff would look at him, tired blue eyes, from across the table.

 

His uniform would creak with stiffness from the starch it held to keep it orderly, wrinkle-free.

 

“I’m not sure, kiddo,” he would tell him, lips just over the rim of his favorite coffee mug.

 

Would it have been any other topic, that would not be enough for Stiles. His father knew everything, after all. He was the Sheriff of Beacon Hills.

 

But Stiles could still note the same tone in his voice, the distant hum similar to the night of the arson, careful and short. He still hadn’t told Stiles just what had happened that night, why he didn’t come home for a full twenty-four hours, why he looked so shaken and gone, why he would only hug Stiles the second he had him in his sights.

 

For that reason, he didn’t ask again.

 

\--

 

He meets Laura Hale in his kitchen, two months later.

 

She’s wearing a gray, oversized sweater and worn jeans. Stiles sees a cascade of dark, loose curls laying gently on her back, a few resting on the round of her shoulder. But she seems immersed with a task at her hands, not turning around even when the flooring creaks beneath Stiles’ light weight.

 

“Are you hungry?” she asks him, her voice just as gentle as the one from his nighted memories.

 

Stiles says nothing, a bit shell shocked, he can’t even move.

 

Dark curls move as she looks over her shoulder, green eyes striking. She must sense his anxiety, how fast his heart is beating in the small cavity of his chest. Stiles can almost feel her soften, a closed smile forming at the corner of her mouth.

 

“I’m going to make some grilled cheese, do you want one, Stiles?” she tries again, more direct, and tugs straight at Stiles’ hungry tummy.

 

He still doesn’t know what to say, if he _should_ say anything. _I’m sorry. I lost my mom too. Are you okay?_

 

“Yes,” he says softly, and nods for better measure.

 

Laura nods back, and turns around once again. She tells him it will be ready in a few minutes and Stiles continues to hover in the doorframe. When Laura doesn’t shoo him away, or look at him strangely for simply standing there, Stiles creeps into the kitchen slowly. He drops his backpack onto the kitchen table, unzipping his notebook and getting out his homework, as he always would after school.

 

He begins his Language Arts homework, looking over definitions of words he’s only heard in adult conversations, and tries to let that be his only focus. But only minutes later, a plate with perfectly browned bread and oozing cheese is placed next to him. It is cut in half, like Stiles remembers his mother use to do. He tries not to think of the coincidence much.

 

“Thanks,” he almost whispers, and sees that she nods again, chewing on her own sandwich from the counter. They continue like this, in awkward silence, each munching on their grilled cheese, Stiles pretending to be doing his homework, but instead stealing glances at the house guest he’s seeing for the first time. Stiles thinks Laura notices his starring, subtly clearly not his strong suit, but for whatever reason, she indulges his curiosity.

 

“Still hungry?” her voice breaks Stiles’ silent concentration, the only direct sound in the house.

 

He shakes his head, looking at her just once more before drawing his eyes back at his definitions.

 

“Good, because I don’t think there’s anything edible left in that fridge. I’m going on a grocery run, any suggestions?”

 

Stiles notes how she doesn’t invite him to come along and he can’t think of anything to suggest. Laura smiles at him, small but warm, and nods her head as if in affirmation.

 

“And here the Sheriff told me you’d talk my ear off,” she comments, either to Stiles or herself, he’s not sure.

 

“ _Well_ , I’ll be back in about an hour, okay?” she looks at Stiles for a few seconds, and he can’t understand what could be so fascinating about himself, but Laura smiles just once more before he watches her curls bounce behind her and she closes the door out the kitchen.

 

\--

 

She’s not there each time Stiles comes home from school, but he sees her with more frequency. She sits with them at dinner, she drinks coffee at the kitchen table in the morning, she comes in and out on the weekends, she sits with the Sheriff on the couch watching a muted football game, she crouches over scattered papers that are rumpled and piled on the hardwood of the guest room.

 

Laura never mentions just what the importance of those papers hold, the ones her green eyes rove over time and time again, and Stiles never dares to ask. Whatever they are, Stiles is sure he wouldn’t understand, but his curiosity always lingers on them, on Laura Hale.

 

\--

 

She leaves them six months after Stiles had first heard the soft whispers of her voice. She parts with a mantra of _thank yous_ , with tights hugs for both the Stilinski men, with a smile that is genuine and a little melancholy.

 

“You’re always welcome back, you know that right? Anytime you need it, you have a home here, Laura,” Stiles remembers his father telling her, earnest and shy, but with all the authoritative presence of the Sheriff.

 

Stiles remembers Laura smiling, mouth becoming tight, green eyes becoming glassy with tears. She nodded, not speaking, and hugging the s\Sheriff one last time. Giving Stiles a pat on the head, hand traveling down the softness of his face to cradle it just for a second.

 

She was going to New York, that was what she had told the Sheriff only a day earlier. She had extended family there, her late mother’s cousin.

 

But Stiles knew she just couldn’t bear to be in Beacon Hills any longer. _It feels like I’m suffocating here, everywhere I look I can still see them_ , Stiles had overheard her say once.

 

She promises to keep in touch, to call or email. But she doesn’t say she’ll visit, or if she will ever come back. She loads a single suitcase in the back of a taxi, waves at them behind the streaked glass, and then she’s gone.

  
They don’t hear from her again.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles is nineteen when he sees a man deep in the forest of the preserve.

 

It’s only at a glance, a flash of black among evergreen, Stiles isn’t even sure what it exactly that he sees off in the distance, not with the distraction of classmates whirling past him, picking samples to take back to the lab. It’s a Saturday morning, early spring that bites a little each time the wind blows against Stiles’ cheeks.

 

Stiles surmises that it could have been a jogger, or a hiker, just another Beacon Hills resident taking in the lush abundance the preserve has always offered. Stiles saw a few of them as his Biology class trekked into the forest, getting a few wavering glances at the odd scene of college students on the weekend.

 

He doesn’t think much of the stranger anymore when Scott brushes his shoulder to get his attention, a pink worm squirming between tanned fingers, “Kiss it Stiles, maybe you’ll finally get a date!”

 

“ _Dude,”_ he exclaims, shoving Scott playfully, trying to knock the worm out of his best friend’s hand.

 

Scott keeps up with him without a problem, chanting for Stiles to kiss it, some of their classmates still glancing over at their childhood antics, that much hasn’t changed over the years.

 

\--

 

After he graduated high school, Stiles was comfortable with the idea that he was going stay in Beacon Hills indefinitely. He had spoken to his father of the possibility of joining the police academy after he finished his four year degree, majoring in something well related like criminal justice or similar.

 

The Sheriff had shifted in his seat, a bit stiff at the idea of his son putting himself in the line of danger, but nonetheless proud that he wanted to follow in his footsteps. They had gone to the shooting range that weekend, the Sheriff’s reasoning being, “ _You’re already clumsy enough to begin with, might as well teach you to shoot a gun myself.”_

 

Stiles had taken his father up on the offer, reminding him that he had at least two years left with him before he would transfer to the local university with Scott. The Sheriff had ignored his comment, always choosing to ignore it when Stiles would tell him he would move out one day, _Square your shoulders and straighten that arm_ , he said in lieu of another response.

 

Stiles didn’t like the idea of leaving, not when that would mean his father would be left to his own devices, left to eat anything that would make his heart drip in grease, but especially not left alone in his childhood home. That house was full of memories and their own demons, and no matter what Stiles told his father, he just wouldn’t sell it. His mother had died in that house, right next to Stiles’ sleeping father, and he knows that has a lot to do with it.

 

So, when he finally graduates high school, when his father hugs him with tears in his eyes after the ceremony, he doesn’t press him about it anymore. He also tries to stay out of trouble, for the sake of his future career and the Sheriff’s sanity, he gets a part-time job over the summer that turns into something a little more permanent and he focuses on his studies. His days become a normalized routine, of going to class, going to work, studying and repeat.

 

He’s home alone on a weeknight, it’s just about to be 10PM the last time he checked. He’s downstairs, finishing up an assignment on his laptop in the kitchen, papers and books strewn across the table. He thinks his vision is going cross eyed behind his glasses, he’s rubbed at them one time too many to know he has a fatigue he can’t beat away with anymore coffee.

 

He wants to start gathering his materials together to call it a night, but before he can even close his laptop, the phone rings. Stiles first notes that it’s odd that it’s the land line that is ringing, not his cellphone. It’s one more thing the Sheriff won’t get rid of, _You’re not alerted of evacuations on your cellphone, Stiles, the land line stays,_ and Stiles is almost reluctant to answer.

 

After four rings, Stiles picks it up off the receiver. “Hello?”

 

“Stiles, is that you?” She sounds panicked, and Stiles nearly drops the phone from shock.

 

“ _Laura_?”

 

She’s breathing heavily on the other end, but her voice is so familiar in Stiles’ ear that he can’t believe it.

 

“Stiles, you need to listen to me, okay?”

 

“Laura, where are you? Are you in danger? Are you still in--”

 

“Stiles,” she says again, slower, louder. “I don’t have a lot of time, but I need you to listen to what I’m going to tell you.”

 

He feels something heavy and slick drop in his stomach, his heartbeat beginning to pick up, his skin full of pins and needles.

 

“Okay,” he tells her, clearing his throat from fear. “Okay, I’m listening.”

 

“Is your dad there, at home?”

 

“No, he’s working late. _Laura_ , are you okay--”

 

 _“Shit._ Okay, okay,” she repeats, and Stiles thinks she’s talking to herself now, trying to calm down the shakiness of her own voice.

 

“Stiles? You need to promise me something, can you do that?”

 

“ _Laura_ \--” The blood is starting to rush in his ears, he thinks his own heartbeat will burst the drums, his throat is dry and he doesn’t know why Laura is still speaking to him like he’s nine years old, why she’s speaking to him with so much urgency.

 

“ _Stiles_ , I’m serious, I don’t have a lot of time. You need to promise me something!”

 

“Okay,” he tells her, trying to soothe her, trying to soothe himself of whatever this is, whatever is about to happen.

 

“You need to promise me that whatever happens, whatever you might hear tonight, you won’t leave your house.”

 

“But my dad--” he tries to tell her, but she won’t let him.

 

“Your dad will be safe, you need to trust me. I won’t let anything happen to him, but no matter what Stiles, _do not leave your house._ ”

 

He can’t promise her that, and Stiles thinks she knows past the cloud of sheer terror that’s wrapped tight around her.

 

“There’s something I have to do tonight Stiles and I won’t ever forgive myself if something were to happen to either of you.”

 

He hears her exhale, her breath quaking, it sounds like she’s close to tears.

 

“My brother is alive, Stiles. Derek is _alive_ and I have to find him.”

 

It becomes eerily quiet after that, Stiles calls for Laura into the receiver, over and over, but all he gets as a response is the dial tone.

 

\--

 

Stiles has a hoodie on before he can even think, he slips on his shoes and barrels into his Jeep with Laura’s voice still ringing in his ears, his heart still drumming a violent beat in his chest.

 

Thoughts assault his head, one after another, of Laura, of his father, of the dangers Laura was speaking about, rushed and tight with emotion. Stiles tries to think past them, tries to focus on curving his tires on the narrow bends, but he can’t think of anything other than the shrill quiet of his car without anyone to accompany him, of how his hands can’t stop shaking even as they’re clenched around the leather steering wheel, fingers becoming painful with the tension. He counts the number of breaths the takes before he reaches the outline of the station.

 

Cruisers are parked out front and he can’t distinguish between any of them, familiarity being halted by uniformity. But the sheer number of them offers Stiles just the faintest form of relief, it means whatever Laura was hinting at through her jittery words, whatever was suppose to _happen_ , it hadn’t yet. Anxiety and adrenaline course through his veins, he has just enough of his mind left to park his Jeep, to march up to the station’s front doors without tearing them down, to ask Deputy Alexandra at the front if he can see his father.

 

He’s done this before a few times, has come storming into the station nearly jumping past the front desk to see if the Sheriff was here, if he was _alive._ He would get chewed out at home, he always did, the Sheriff would tell him to stop listening to the police scanner, to do his homework, to go to sleep, to stop worrying about him. But then the Sheriff would look at Stiles, at the burnt honey irises Claudia had given him, the ones mirroring the same damn determination she always carried with her, and he would assure his son he was fine, that the incident wasn’t nearly as bad as Stiles had heard. Stiles wouldn’t believe him, _of course he wouldn’t_ , but it was enough to get him out of the station and back home.

 

Deputy Alexandra calls for the Sheriff with a flick of her head and it calms Stiles just a bit more. He looks confused when he emerges, he _always_ looks confused when he sees Stiles there, and he begins to open his mouth to get a word in but Stiles can’t let him.

 

“Laura called.”

 

Stiles watches the Sheriff as it takes a few seconds for the name to register, then his blue eyes widen, he takes a few steps closer, his boots creaking against the linoleum floor. The Sheriff walks past the front desk, gently takes Stiles’ arm in his grip and walks to the darkened corner of the entrance.

 

“Stiles are you sure--” the Sheriff begins, his tone calm, just as Stiles has heard it before when he is speaking with victims, with children, with people in distress.

 

“She called the house,” he recounts, tries to keep himself calm, but his hands are shaking where they’re stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, “--she asked if you were there too. I tried to ask her where she was, but she kept telling me to promise her something. I think she’s in trouble, Dad. She wouldn’t tell me anything, but she’s in Beacon Hills, she told me not to leave the house. Something’s supposed to happen tonight--- and she told me-- she _promised_ me you’d be safe, but--”

 

“Stiles,” he says, firm. “Stiles, you need to breathe.” The hand that had been cradling Stiles’ arm has moved to his shoulder, squeezing for comfort.

 

“ _Dad_ , Laura is in trouble--” he tries to tell him, tries to get across just how _horrified_ she had sounded.

 

“Okay,” the Sheriff says slowly, still squeezing Stiles’ shoulder, “alright, tell me again exactly what she said.”

 

Stiles open his mouth to begin, about to tell the Sheriff at the precise time Laura had called, but then Deputy Alexandra speaks, the phone clutched in her hand.

 

“Sheriff, multiple people have called in about complaints on the preserve.”

 

“Send Parrish to investigate, it sounds like the routine.”

 

“Someone said they had heard wolves, and . . . someone said they heard a woman scream.”

 

The hand on Stiles’ shoulder suddenly becomes limp and Stiles eyes slide back to the Sheriff.

 

“Dad--”

 

“Get Parrish, Gonzalez, and Martin. I want them suited up and patch in coordinates. Get animal control and tell them it’s urgent.”

 

The Sheriff turns back to Stiles, face serious and controlled. “Stiles, I need you to stay here--”

 

“What’s going on?” His voice cuts above his father’s, his feet stepping backwards like that will provide him with some perspective, some sense of clarity.

 

“I can’t explain right now, but I need you to promise me you won’t leave the station.”

 

His heartbeat starts spiking again, just as it did when Laura had called, and it all feels eerily similar, it makes Stiles’ bones chill in something acute to terror.

 

“It’s her, isn’t it?” he dares ask, voice small and wavering.

 

“Stiles--”

 

“Sheriff, the deputies are ready by your order,” Alexandra’s calm voice beckons him, but her body language is stiff, her brown eyes skipping between the private scene in front of her.

 

“I’ll be back soon,” his father tells him, the authority has drained from his face, his voice desperate and quiet. “ _Please_ , Stiles, just stay here.”

 

He turns with a click and Stiles looks up to see his figure move past the front desk, he can see him maneuver between the desks and then he’s out of sight. The sirens of the cruisers startle Stiles with a shake and his eyes watch the lights bounce off the glass of the front doors, piercing through in a haze of red and blue.

 

Four cruisers take off, sirens screaming into the stillness of the night and Stiles holds onto himself, trying to do just as his father told him.

 

Staying.

 

Breathing.

 

\--

 

Alexandra offers him some coffee after two hours. He takes it, his hands no longer shaking, and he thanks her. He checks his phone idly, hoping his father will tell him something, a confirmation that it’s not Laura, that it’s not _her_. But Stiles is greeted with a blank screen and a numerical indication that two more hours have passed.

 

Stiles hears the four cruisers roll to a stop outside sometime between 2AM. The Sheriff is the last to come inside, he doesn’t look at him, his feet carrying him to the empty chair beside his son, and he sits down slowly, a breath finally leaving his lungs, like he had carried it with him this entire time.

 

“It was an animal attack,” he says after a few minutes and Stiles can only note the exhaustion in his voice, “that’s what we believed when we had gotten there. We heard them as soon as we were outside, it was almost like they were screaming. It was coming from everywhere, we didn’t even know where to go first.”

 

The Sheriff drops his elbows to balance on the ridge of his knees, he lets out another breath as his hands scrub at his face, running through his hair before he speaks again, looking pointedly at the floor.

 

“Then it stopped. Just--one second to the next, everything was quiet. And then we heard it, we heard a woman scream.”

 

Stiles shifts in his seat, his limbs drawing themselves tighter. There’s a reason he’s being told this, normally he always has to badger his father for details about a case, and very rarely is he ever told about one by the man himself. The Sheriff tells him it will might become public record later, to look it up himself when it’s available. Stiles knows the Sheriff should be documenting his official statement, that’s protocol, that’s the way all cases should be handled.

 

But instead the Sheriff is wringing his hands until they turn red. Instead he is sitting in a visitor’s chair, recounting it all to his son.

 

“In all the years I’ve been doing this, I’ve never heard anyone scream like that.”

 

It becomes quiet again, Stiles hears the deputies murmuring in the back, Alexandra clicking on the keyboard, processing paperwork, trying her best not to pay the pair any mind.

 

“They had ripped her apart,” he says very, very quietly. Stiles doesn’t ask for clarification, and the Sheriff doesn’t say anything more on the matter. They sit in measured silence, neither wanting to be the first to move, Stiles doesn’t want to break the precious haze they’re surrounded in. That would mean that it’s over, that time continues, that he goes home, that the Sheriff goes back to work, that Laura Hale is dead.

 

Stiles feels a hand rest against his back, warm and broad, trailing the notches of his spine.

 

The Sheriff finally looks at Stiles. “Go home, kiddo.”

 

He bites back any protest that would bubble on his lips, his heart too hollow to do anything than agree. He nods at the Sheriff with the faintest bow of the head, slips out from beneath his hand, and he drives home in a state of mournful, empty shock.

 

The Sheriff doesn’t looks surprised when he finds Stiles in the kitchen when he finally comes home. He knows Stiles should be in one of his lectures, halfway across town, but he can’t bring himself to care. He sits himself down, a warm cup of coffee appearing in front of him before Stiles can disappear out of the room.

 

But he stops just under the doorframe, still in his the same clothes as the previous night.

 

“She said she was going to find her brother.”

 

The Sheriff’s eyebrows furrow, something dropping in his stomach. “That’s impossible, she was the only one who survived the fire.”

 

Stiles’ shoulders slump and he shakes his head as if he’s sorting a conflict in his mind.

 

“That’s what she told me.”

 

\--

 

He can’t dignify skipping class the following day and on top of that he has a shift at the store, he could call in, take another personal day, but the walls feel like they’re getting tighter the more Stiles holes up in his room.

 

He doesn’t try to get any more details aside from what his father had already told him of the animal attack, and he doesn’t need to, the Beacon Tribune publishes a full story on the incident. After the police had arrived, animal control had done a sweep of the area and they confirmed there were wolf footprints all across the preserve, not solely where the attack had taken place. They had wished to have taken the  deceased wolves to UC Davis for testing and research, but the damage done to all the wolves was extensive and _brutal_. From what they could piece together, the wolves had attacked each other before they had attacked Jane Doe. Her torso was severed from the bottom half of her body and she died instantly. There was further damage found on her body, evidence of a struggle, open gashes across her back, slices from claws on her arms and deep wounds on her face. They haven’t been able to identify her yet, as she did not have any identification in her possession. But law enforcement are hopeful dental records will come up with a match.

 

Reading the story doesn’t bring any closure to Stiles, having an account of exactly what had happened that night almost feels worse than what his own mind had drawn up in the absence of fact. At some point he selfishly thinks that what happened to Laura could have happened to him, to his father, had he only intervened more than his poor attempt.

 

_There’s something I have to do tonight Stiles and I won’t ever forgive myself if something were to happen to either of you._

 

They speak about the incident in his Biology class, the story is buzzing on everyone’s lips, they ask how this could have happened, they ask if the wolves were desperate for food, if they had rabies or had simply been feral.

 

“I thought there weren’t wolves in California,” someone speaks up in the lecture hall, putting a second long silence on the discussion.

 

“You’re right,” the professor points directly at the student, “before the attack, there have been no known sightings of wolves in California, and Beacon Hills specifically, for over fifty years. It was believed that they had migrated away from the area completely, north to Oregon and Washington.”

 

“--So are they back?” someone else chirps, worry in their tone.

 

“I’m not sure,” she answers, “it could have been a feral pack, brought here by scent or food. I’m not sure we’ll ever know.”

 

Stiles sees movement to his left, Scott shifting in his seat, his arm raised high in the air. The professor nods at Scott in acknowledgement.

 

“Do they--do _packs_ typically turn on each other? They just attack each other out of nowhere?”

 

“I’m not an expert in animal behavior and dynamics, but I believe it’s safe to say that no, Scott. I don’t believe packs attack each other without a reason. We have talked briefly in this class about hierarchies,” she turns her back to the class, whiteboard marker in her hand as she draws a pyramid on the board, “and they mirror in packs, in marine pods in the wild. It is not wise to turn against your pack, they are often your family.”

 

“Then why would they attack their own family?” It’s Scott who asks again, some sort of veterinary determination creased on his brow.

 

The professor smiles, participate as loyal as Scott’s is hard to come by in college level courses.

 

“Why do you think, Scott?”

 

Stiles looks to his best friend, watches his eyes become distant in thought before they become sharp again, and then he says a single word that makes something in Stiles’ mind click into place.

 

“Power.”

 

“Good, Scott,” she turns her back to the class once again, circling a word for emphasis, “there is always a head of a pack or a pod, an alpha of sorts. They control the rest of the pack, keep them in place, and hold the largest responsibility in terms of their survival. If anyone challenges the alpha, it can sometimes end in death.”

 

The discussion dwindles after that, the lesson from the previous lecture is rekindled and a powerpoint becomes the main area of focus. But Stiles mind can’t keep up with the lesson, not even after Scott has nudged him for not taking any notes, he simply can’t feign interest when _something_ is gnawing at his conscious.

 

The animal attack had been discussed and retold countless times since it became public, since the Sheriff released a statement. Stiles has seen in on the news, in the papers, heard the Sheriff speaking about it on the phone to a colleague the next county over. It was a tragedy, a horrific accident that was too gruesome to photograph, something animal control, something the coroner had never seen when they were asked for a statement.

 

_In all the years I’ve been doing this, I’ve never heard anyone scream like that._

 

Stiles realizes that amongst the press, the coverage this will get for months once they discover it was Laura Hale who was mauled to death by a pack of feral wolves, amongst _everything_ , no one knows just why she had been on the preserve that night. It’s almost as if no one thought to ask.

  
Something is desperately missing from all this and Stiles doesn’t have the faintest idea how, but he needs to find out what it is.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles is twenty when he finds a stranger in the hallway of his house.

 

He hadn’t registered the figure, mind too occupied by the onslaught of the new semester, projects and papers and books. His feet were leading him straight to the comfort of his bed, but then something had creaked and his eyes focused, his heart stuttered, air left his lungs and his blood suddenly felt cold.

 

He was dressed in black, that was the first thing Stiles had taken in, the second were the color of his eyes, the very ones that were looking at him with something like fear embedded deep past the scorched hazel.

 

Neither of them moved, Stiles too afraid to even _breathe_ , and the man’s eyes snapped to his right, to the open door of Stiles’ room. He moved so suddenly Stiles could barely process it and when Stiles chased after him, legs suddenly determined and unafraid, he was gone.

 

The window was gaping, the sheer curtains blowing in the gust it let in. But Stiles couldn’t remember the last time he had even opened it.

 

\--

 

He tells the Sheriff at dinner, just as he is about to put a piece of chicken in his mouth, and he drops his fork at Stiles’ words.

 

“Stay here,” his voice is firm and Stiles can’t even ask him where he is going before he disappears upstairs. Stiles hears the floorboards creak under the weight, can trail his father walking into each room, then down the stairs. He whirls past the kitchen, into the living room, inspecting the front door, to the garage and back.

 

He thrusts a metal baseball bat in front of Stiles, one he can barely remember from his times on the team in middle school but he takes it all the same.

 

“You keep this close to you. I’m going to get an alarm system put in, but in the meantime--”

 

“ _Dad_ ,” Stiles begins, a whine in his tone because this is _ridiculous_.

 

“I don’t want to hear it Stiles, someone broke into this house--”

 

“They came through the window! I must have left it open and they saw an opportunity!”

 

The Sheriff makes a face, one Stiles is none too fond of, the one where he doesn’t believe a thing Stiles is telling him.

 

“Your room is on the second floor, there’s no way he came in through your window without a ladder.”

 

“ _Okay_ , so there was no ladder per se . . . “

 

“Keep the bat, Stiles,” he says gruffly, sitting back down to pick at his vegetables until Stiles forces him to eat them.

 

Stiles sleeps with the bat close to his bed, but he can’t say that it makes him feel any safer.

 

\--

True to his word, the Sheriff gets an alarm system installed the next day and proudly puts the picketed sign on their front yard, warding off any future break-ins. Stiles rolls his eyes at the display, walking past his father as he eyes the digital system only a few steps from the door. He barks numbers at Stiles, which he figures is the code, and he catalogues them with a wave and goes upstairs to get a headstart on a few assignments before his shift at the store tonight.

 

He sets his backpack down on his bed, sliding out his laptop carefully, and he sets it up on his desk, typing in the passcode and opening Google.

 

He’s had the same websites bookmarked for months, always checking in every few days to see if there have been any updates, any memorable stories that will help piece together the puzzle that began with Laura’s phone call months ago. But after so much research, after sneaking peeks at the records at the station, Stiles is beginning to believe this all started even before then, back to the night of the Hale fire.

 

He takes a few quick minutes to look over the Beacon Tribune, looking for any stories of break-ins around the area, but he sees nothing besides small articles with a focus on _Back to School_ , the homecoming game at Beacon Hills High School, planning for the Harvest Festival, nothing terribly out of the ordinary.

 

Stiles sits back in his chair, a little frustrated, but not surprised. He’s been hoping for something to pop out at him, any type of clue that will aid in the story his mind has been trying to recount. After the animal attack on the preserve he went into a type of frenzy, looking up all accounts of attacks around the immediate area, in Beacon Hills, articles about disturbances, about sightings, _anything_.

 

He had only gotten as far as realizing that for a period of years, there had stopped being incident reports about suspicious sounds on the preserve. There was a considerable lull, the first formidable clue Stiles had encountered, and he had looked further into the gap in time.

 

It had been ten years.

 

The latest report was the night they had found Laura Hale’s severed body on the preserve. Multiple people had called in with complaints of suspicious noises coming from the preserve, a few even believing they had heard coyotes, maybe even wolves.

 

Then prior to that, nothing. For ten years there isn’t a single report of animal activity, of noises, not a single complaint until April 17th, 2005. And even then, Stiles could only find a single sentence that alluded to anything of the sort, as it was, the entire article had been devoted to the Hale fire. It had taken Stiles months to gather that much, and in the end it left him as confused as he had began.

 

It was all related, he knew all of it was somehow connected, but Stiles still couldn’t figure out _how_. What did animal attacks have to do with the Hale fire, why had Laura been out in the preserve, why had she been looking for a brother that was dead?

 

 _My brother is alive, Stiles. Derek is_ **_alive_ ** _and I have to find him._

 

Stiles clicks back to an article that is well worn in his eyes, having read it countless times in the past months, every paragraph of the expose familiar as his eyes search for one detail in particular, halfway through. Names and birthdays of all the eight deceased in the fire.

 

Talia Hale - August 21, 1965.

 

Michael Hale - September 5th, 1964.

 

Peter Hale - May 13, 1971.

 

Jonathan and Jayden Hale - April 29, 1998.

 

Dylan Hale - March 1, 2005.

 

Cora Hale - October 27, 1999.

 

Derek Hale - December 25, 1989.

 

Stiles had never paid it much mind, but the article contained pictures. One of the Hale house after the firefighters had put out the flames, the charred remains illuminated by the morning sun. The rest were of the Hale family, pictures Laura had possibly supplied of the adults, yearbook pictures for the rest. Stiles had remembered thinking how _young_ they all looked, all the Hale siblings staring back at him with forced smiles, Cora had been his age when she died.

 

He looks at the pictures in earnest this time, having always glossed over them when he would read the article, feeling selfishly uncomfortable to look upon something as personal the pictures of the Hales, further putting into perspective that when Laura had come to stay with them, she had lost _everything_.

 

They all look like Talia in one way or another, whether in their hair or their eyes or the softness of their faces. Even Laura had looked like Talia, he remembers that much, but the sharpness of her face had come from her father, from Michael. No one else quite possesses the same sharpness, no one but Derek.

 

Dark hair, hazel eyes that are light and inviting. His smile is the most believable of them all, genuine and even, bunny teeth making themselves known. He looks _happy_ and Stiles can’t even scorn the fact that he’s wearing a letterman jacket in the picture, radiating confidence and pride, Stiles can’t think a single ill thought because Laura was right.

 

Derek Hale _is_ alive and by some twist of fate, he had found Stiles along the way.

 

\--

 

He doesn’t know where to look for him, can’t even begin to fathom how Derek has been able to survive all these years, how no one has even seen a glimpse of him across town. Stiles thinks that maybe Derek had simply been passing through, maybe he doesn’t even live in Beacon Hills anymore, and of course, no one would blame him.

 

But that still doesn’t answer any of his questions, even more seem to arise with the new realization. How had Laura known her brother was alive? Why had she never spoken up about it? The Sheriff would have organized a search party in an instant if Laura had mentioned it to him, the town would have volunteered, every inch of Beacon Hills would have been searched to find Derek Hale.

 

She must have been hiding something, Stiles gathers. A secret, _anything_ that would have been too great to risk finding her own family _._ But Stiles is at a loss once again as to what that could have possibly been, Laura died along with that secret, and the only one who could possibly know the extent of this mess is Derek. Even then, Stiles can’t be so sure. Derek had looked lost, out of place in weathered clothes, standing in the hallway of his childhood home with dirt streaked across his cheekbone, lips dry and cracked, eyes frantic and terrified to have someone simply _looking_ at him.

 

Wherever Derek had been, whatever he had been doing for the last ten years, Stiles isn’t so sure he should know. The Hale family had always been private, close knit and mysterious, and even then, nobody would believe him.

 

As far as anyone is concerned, Derek Hale is a ghost, and Stiles will be damned if anyone would help find him.

 

\--

 

The alarm system seems to do its job just fine, nearly two weeks have passed without so much as a leaf hitting Stiles’ window, and the Sheriff is a little smug about it all. Stiles tells him they have never had a break-in in the past, _you’re really just tooting your own horn for funsies_ , the Sheriff ignores him in favor of watching the game at a higher volume.

 

As it turns out, however, the alarm system does absolutely nothing where open windows are concerned.

 

Derek Hale stands in his room, looking as out of place as ever. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on in their first encounter, and from what Stiles can see, he looks even worse for wear. His cheekbones are sunken in past the dirt and Stiles thinks he sees dried blood around the collar of his faded t-shirt. Again, neither moves and Stiles prays his father doesn’t hear two pairs of footsteps instead of one.

 

“She lived here.” His voice is so much lighter than Stiles would have thought it to be, rough with disuse, as weathered as the rest of him.

 

It shocks Stiles to even hear him speak, but he notes that it’s not a question, it’s a statement, _fact_.

 

“Yes,” he supplies, shy and a little afraid if he’s being honest. “--yeah, Laura lived here.”

 

Something flashes across Derek’s face, just for a second, then the expression cools to control, eyes not looking up to meet Stiles’. After a few seconds he seems satisfied with the answer, and his body shifts as if he’s to leave again, Stiles reaches out to stop him, he freezes.

 

“How--how did you know she lived here?” His hand drops to his side, unsure of why he even reached out to Derek in the first place.

 

Stiles’ watches Derek’s eyes divert, they blink a few times like he’s trying to focus. Stiles notes how Derek is possibly only an inch or two taller than himself, but his shoulders are broad across, he could easily be intimidating, but he just looks so _small_.

 

“It still smells like her,” Derek tells him honestly, he looks up to catch Stiles’ eyes for only an instant, and then he turns with a movement far more graceful then Stiles would think he possessed, and he’s gone.

 

“You talking to yourself again, kiddo?” The Sheriff’s voice startles him, he gawks to look over at the doorway where his father is leaning against the wooden frame.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles recovers, his heart still beating a mile a minute, “helps with brain flow and all that. It’s science, Dad. Can’t dispute the facts.”

 

The Sheriff nods like he is trying to understands, but won’t meddle. “Let me know when you’re hungry, I’ll heat something up.”

 

“Yeah, Dad. Thanks,” he tells him as the Sheriff retreats down the hall, back downstairs.

 

Stiles glances to the window, open and empty, curtains billowing in the soft breeze.

 

\--

 

It’s a night when the Sheriff works a double, Stiles has argued with him enough about the fact that it’s not healthy to work twenty four hours straight, but the Sheriff has fired back that Stiles should get use to it because that’s his own future he’s complaining about. Instead Stiles simply leaves him two giant travel mugs on the kitchen table, mugs filled with black coffee to take with him to the station. The new method has worked from them thus far.

 

Siles use to revel in nights like these, calling up Scott to convince him they just _had_ to go down to the preserve, getting buzzed on cheap whiskey in the woods. High school had been just a little easier with those nights on hand a few times a month, it made Scott temporarily forget when Rafael would come to visit, hoping to bond with the son he walked out on, and it made Stiles forget his anxiety, his ADHD, the nightmares he is still plagued with, waking up in a cold sweat and wracked with guilt about his mother’s death.

 

Now, he uses those nights like he would any other, to study. He has his laptop open, in the very beginnings of organizing a future paper for his Early European History class, and he hears a soft knock on his window. It feels like his heart drops into the pit of his stomach, yet it still wants to beat right out of his chest. He looks over to the window with tense muscles, he can barely make out a figure there in the darkness of the night, but he knows it can only be one person.

 

Stiles doesn’t think as he moves to the window, unlatching the lock that is ultimately useless, and he opens it slowly, watching Derek’s crouched legs come into clarity first. He moves back once it’s open all the way and Derek lowers himself gracefully into his room. He has dried blood on his eyebrow, dirt ever present on his face, and his facial hair is even thicker than the last time Stiles had seen him. He’s in the same clothes, _of course he is_ , Stiles thinks.

 

Something churns in Stiles’ chest, it’s almost painful, but Stiles doesn’t know how to voice it. He wants to give Derek something fresh to change into, clean the blood and dirt off his face, _feed_ him because he looks even slimmer than the last time. He wants to tell him to stay, he keeps coming back for a reason and Stiles thinks he may just know why.

 

“You’re afraid.” His voice is thick with disuse again. Another fact, it’s not a question.

 

“Yes,” Stiles tells him, there’s no point in lying, it must be written all over his face.

 

Stiles starts to retreat, hands reflexively hovering in the air, he wants Derek to stay.

 

“Don’t move,” he tells him, “I’ll be right back.” He doesn’t wait for a response, nearly bolting to his father’s room, going to very back of the closet, wrestling out clothes folded neatly into a large, black garbage bag. It was all supposed to be for donation, clothes that no longer fit the Sheriff’s slimer fame after his radical diet change per Stiles, but neither of them ever got around to driving to the donation site. Stiles drags the heavy bag down the hall, he almost expects Derek to have left without a trace, but he’s still there when Stiles rounds the corner, seemingly in the exact spot Stiles had told him to stay.

 

Derek’s face almost looks a little puzzled, the expression welcome to the coldness Stiles has only ever associated him with. Stiles unceremoniously drags the bag to the center of his room, in front of Derek and opens the drawstrings, taking out a few plain shirts, a bit faded but still in good condition. He sets one aside that he believes will fit Derek better than the rest and he fishes out a pair of gray sweatpants.

 

“Put these on,” Stiles offers him the folded clothes, Derek takes them slowly, unsure. “Change out of those, I’ll wash them for you.” Derek looks at the clothes in his hands, Stiles thinks he’s about to argue in as few words as he can, but he surprises Stiles by nodding, setting the articles on the bed, and promptly begins to strip.

 

“Wait-- _wait wait, hold on_ ,” Stiles stutters, Derek’s eyes snap to his in shock, like he’s done something wrong. He freezes once again, like he’s afraid to move.

 

“Let me--,” Stiles stops, the very same thing in his chest twisting watching Derek’s actions, shy and measured, “bring the clothes with you, let me clean that cut first.”

 

Stiles turns, hearing Derek shuffling behind him, obeying without a complaint. Something about that doesn’t sit well with Stiles, but he can’t let Derek notice how much it’s affecting him the more he sees the blatant examples of obedience.

 

Stiles turns on the light in the small bathroom, instructs Derek to sit on the closed lid of the toilet, and he busies himself with getting out the first aid kit from under the sink. He lets the metal box rest on the edge, gets out some peroxide and two cotton balls. Derek sits still through it all, he doesn’t wince when the bubbles fizzle against his skin, but Stiles realizes that has more to do with the absence of a wound than anything else. The blood on his eyebrow had still been shining a few minutes ago, yet Derek’s skin had already healed whatever was beneath.

 

Stiles gets the other cotton ball damp with water and wipes away the blood, inspects Derek’s profile a little more closely for any other injuries. All Stiles sees is the cut of his jawline, the prominence of his cheekbones, the sharpness of his angular nose. Derek remains very still, blinking with thick eyelashes, and Stiles realizes that he’s staring more than anything.

 

He clears his throat. “Why don’t you take a shower? Leave your clothes outside the door and I’ll start a load. Are you hungry?” Derek looks at him for an instant again, then drops his eyes just as quickly. He says nothing.

 

“Come downstairs after you’re done,” Stiles instructs instead, putting the first aid kit back under the sink, “use whatever you like, I’ll make us some dinner.” He closes the door, but continues to hover until he hears the water begin to run.

 

Stiles walks back to his room, lets himself freak out in private, and then begins to go through the bag of donations a little more closely. He selects a few more shirts, another pair of sweats, and a well loved sweater that has _Sheriff_ written in yellow letters on the back. The puts the rest in the bag and starts to drag it back to the recesses of his father’s closet. But before he makes it he sees a pile of black clothes outside the bathroom door, just like he had requested.

 

“ _Holy shit_ ,” he whispers to himself, and then once more for good measure.

 

He picks up the dirty, musty pile and throws them into the wash.

 

\--

 

Derek meets him downstairs, in the kitchen just as Stiles has one grilled cheese ready. He tells him to sit, and it should stop shocking Stiles so much when he does exactly as he’s told.

 

Stiles puts the gooey sandwich on a plate and gives it to Derek to eat, he almost thinks he has to tell him to start without him, but Derek bites into the sandwich like a man starved, but Stiles doesn’t think that may be far from the truth. The shirt Derek is wearing is a little loose on him, but Stiles was right at first glance, Derek is thin, but not malnourished.

 

“Do you want another one?” Stiles asks him, still watching the sizzling sandwich on the stove. Derek says nothing, but Stiles slips the second grilled cheese from the pan to Derek’s vacant plate once it’s done toasting.

 

Stiles leaves the pan abandoned on the stove and pulls up a chair to sit across the table from Derek, but not before the fills a large glass of water, leaving it next to Derek’s empty plate.

 

They sit in silence, a million questions running through Stiles’ mind, but he can’t ask any of them, not yet at least. But Derek surprises him, like he’s been doing since he first showed up, and he speaks.

 

“You’re not afraid anymore.”

 

“How’d ya figure?” Stiles tries to tease, but it falls flat between the two.

 

“You stopped smelling like it,” Derek tells him, almost matter of factly, eyes cast away from Stiles, clear cup loosely in his grasp.

 

“What does fear smell like?” Stiles asks, voice quiet, curious in a way he doesn’t think he should be.

 

“Sour,” Derek answers easily, like he’s familiar with the matter, like it’s _nothing_.

 

“How could you know that?” Stiles continues, more to himself than to Derek, but he knows instantly he shouldn’t have asked. Derek tenses, hand clutching the glass tighter until Stiles thinks it will break in his grip.

 

“Stop-- _stop_ ,” the feet of the chair creak against the hardwood, and Stiles is at Derek’s side in an instant, taking the glass out of his hand before it can shatter. He leaves it on the countertop, forgotten and unimportant as he looks at Derek, sitting in his kitchen, stock still like he’s waiting for something to do, someone to tell him _what_ to do.

 

“I think we could both use some sleep,” Stiles tells him, tries to keep the conversation light, and when Stiles tells Derek to follow him upstairs, he does.

 

He leads Derek to his room first, tells him the clothes on his bed are for him to wear, then he tells him to wait there. Stiles goes downstairs to take Derek’s clothes out of the washer and into the dryer, and grabs some clean sheets and blankets from the hall closet by the front door. He walks past his open bedroom, Derek doesn't even look up.

  


Stiles strips the guest bedroom, dresses the bed with fresh sheets and pillowcases, and stacks blankets on top of that. It’s been colder than normal these last few nights and Stiles hopes Derek will be more appreciative of the extra layers, rather than think Stiles is just excessive. Stiles bundles all the stale bedding in his arms and dumps it into a corner of his room, Derek still doesn’t look up.

 

“I put some clean sheets on the bed, so if it smells a little funny that’s not why,” he takes another stab at some humor, but Derek is unphased by the attempt and Stiles decides it’s better if he acts civil. Stiles motions Derek to follow him to the next room over and when they’re inside the softly lit room, Stiles speaks.

 

“This is where she stayed,” he explains, looking at the bed and remembering Laura would have papers scattered everywhere.

 

Derek stills at that, but he nods slowly, stepping further into the room on his own accord. Stiles tells him that if he needs anything, to come into the room, to wake him up if he has to. Derek says nothing, not surprisingly, but Stiles knows he heard him.

 

It’s not until a little later that Stiles realizes he’ll have to explain this to the Sheriff somehow, that that will be an even bigger headache than simply telling him _he_ was right.

 

But it doesn’t matter in the end, when Stiles wakes up at first light he goes to see if Derek is still sleeping, but the room is empty. And when he goes downstairs to see if he’s possibly anywhere around the house, he finds the dryer open, his clothes gone.

 

\--

 

It’s only a few days later, the Sheriff working another double, when Stiles hears the familiar knock on his window. His heart still flutters in his chest, but he opens the window without reservations. Derek lowers himself inside, dancer like in his fluidity, and Stiles notices almost instantly that his body language isn’t as stiff, it’s almost looser, like he’s comfortable. His clothes are a mess again and he’s got dirt on his face so Stiles finds him another one of the Sheriff’s forgotten shirts, the same, washed sweats Derek had worn before, and he leads him to the bathroom to shower and takes the pile of black Derek discards outside the door.

 

Stiles serves him pasta with ground turkey and Derek inhales it in minutes. Stiles serves him once more and offers him some milk in a plastic cup this time around. He reminds him that if he needs anything, to come find him, and he leaves him alone to sleep in the guest room.

 

And just like before, when Stiles wakes, Derek’s gone.

 

\--

 

The next time Derek rasps his knuckles against the window Stiles notices that it’s freezing outside.

 

They go through the motions that are beginning to be routine now, Stiles gives Derek a once over, gives him fresh clothes and points him to the bathroom, he takes pile of black from outside the door, drops it into the washer, makes Derek dinner, serves him twice, and sends him to bed.

 

“Take this with you,” Stiles tells him this time, a thick windbreaker in his hand that will at least help with the chill outside.

 

Derek looks at him, really _looks_ at him, and accepts it.

 

Derek, his clothes, and the windbreaker are gone the next morning.

 

\--

 

“Where do you go when you leave?” Stiles asks him, watching as Derek eats chili from a large bowl, biting into french bread every other bite.

 

Derek looks up at the question, looks at Stiles in the eyes, something he’s been doing more often, and clears his throat.

 

“There’s some abandoned train cars in the industrial district,” he explains and spoons another helping of chili into his mouth.

 

“You could stay here if you wanted to,” he tells him, biting at his lip, feeling his pulse in his throat.

 

Derek looks at him again, eyes soft and brilliant, and he shakes his head.

 

“I can’t,” he says and Stiles regrets when the next morning comes, looking at the empty guest bed, because he didn’t ask _why_.

 

\--

 

Stiles is shaken awake by rough hands, the figure above him is dark and severely out of focus. He blindly feels for his glasses and glances at the clock on his nightstand. 2:57AM.

 

“Someone’s here,” Derek whispers, hands clutching Stiles’ shirt like he’s afraid.

 

“It’s just my dad, don’t worry--” Stiles tries to sit up under Derek’s grip, but it only tightens and Stiles notes that Derek’s breathing is rough, that his hands are shaking.

 

“He can’t know I’m here,” he says, frantic and his voice is thick with emotion, “Nobody can know I’m here--”

 

“Hey-- _hey_ , it’s okay,” Stiles tries to soothe him, places his own hands over Derek’s to try and to loosen his grip, tries to keep his heartbeat even because Derek can smell fear, and there’s still a lot Stiles doesn’t know about him.

 

“He can’t know I’m here,” Derek repeats, eyes looking every which way, like he’s trying to find a way out.

 

“He can help--” Stiles tries, but Derek’s eyes snap to his, his head shaking, grip tightening again.

 

“ _He can’t know, Stiles_ ,” he whispers, desperation dripping from his voice and it breaks Stiles’ heart.

 

“Okay,” his fingers gently grip Derek’s hands, he looks up at him, eyes dark in the night, “okay, I won’t tell him, he won’t know. It’s okay, Derek,” he gets Derek’s fingers free from his shirt, tries to console him the best he can, repeating the words until Derek’s fingers stop shaking in Stiles’ grip.

 

Somehow Stiles gets Derek to lie down in the bed, gets his eyes to stop staring at the shadows of the Sheriff’s feet shuffling tiredly outside. He half expects Derek to climb out his window, but he stays, and Stiles continues to soothe him, brushing back his hair with timid hands because he’s never really _touched_ Derek before, but the brunette doesn’t bat him away, doesn’t become tense with nerves, if anything Stiles thinks he relaxes into the motions.

 

“Someday you’re going to have to tell me what happened,” Stiles whispers sometime later, after he’s sure the Sheriff is asleep. Derek’s back is to him, his body rising and falling with his languid breathing, and Stiles continues to draw lines into his clothed back.

 

“Not yet.”

 

“But you will?”

 

He’s quiet and Stiles waits.

 

“Yeah,” he finally says, voice rough, “I will.”

 

\--

 

Stiles feels the bed shift sometime around eight in the morning, his mind is still cloudy and he doesn’t bother to open his eyes to the sun streaming brightly into the room.

 

He feels a warm palm at the top of his head, caressing his hair, then he feels someone’s face come in close, a nose presses into the softness of his cheek. Derek rubs into him gently and Stiles lets him.

 

Before he’s out the window, Stiles opens his eyes, blurry and tired.

 

Derek is looking at him, saddled on the ridge of his window, and from the distance Stiles can’t confirm the small smile on Derek’s lips.

 

Even then, when Stiles wakes up again, hours later, he’ll believe it was a dream anyway.

 

\--

 

The next time is much the same as the others, Derek in Stiles’ room, the fresh clothes, the shower, dinner, but when Stiles looks to the guest room, he turns back to Derek.

 

“Maybe we shouldn’t chance it anymore,” he says, almost shy, and Stiles knows Derek can see the fierce blush spreading exquisitely against his pale, freckled skin.

 

But Derek agrees to it all the same, _it’s too much of a risk_ , and the pair find themselves in Stiles’ room, in Stiles’ warm bed, and just like before, Derek relaxes into the blankets.

 

Stiles rubs circles into Derek’s back, and tries not to stare at the way Derek’s neck curves delicately against the round of the pillow.

 

Derek suddenly turns his head and Stiles thinks he’s been found out.

 

“Stop writing cuss words on my back,” he says, and this time Stiles knows for sure he was smiling.

 

\--

 

Stiles knows that Derek only comes around when the Sheriff is working a double, the cruiser vacant from the driveway, and now Stiles doesn’t bat an eye when Derek lets himself in through the open window. The Sheriff is working more now that the holidays are just around the corner, _someone has to be there when family parties go bad_ , and Stiles has tried to weasel himself out of working nights at the store, _I’ll be your weekend bitch without complaints, I just need the nights to study for midterms_.

 

Stiles had told himself that it was for Derek’s benefit, to be there, to be something constant he could rely on, but he knows he’s not fooling himself when he waits for the nights he can simply be around the brunette. Derek has started to open up, more than Stiles would have believed in the beginning, but he only does so after he’s settled in, after the routine has passed between them, once they’re under the covers, Derek so close Stiles can feel the heat of his skin between them.

 

“It was Kate Argent who started the fire,” he tells Stiles one night, voice clear, eyes cast down to look at the way their hands meld together.

 

Stiles squeezes his fingers in assurance, and Derek continues.

 

“I met her in high school, I was sixteen and she had just turned twenty one. I thought she loved me, the way she talked to me and drove me around in her car, she said she wanted to know everything about me. And she did, I told her everything.”

 

He doesn’t have to say the rest, Stiles knows, _everyone_ knows. Kate Argent was convicted on eight counts of premeditated manslaughter, and one count of arson. She’s in a maximum security prison somewhere in Arizona, not solely based on her crimes, but because when the judge asked her if she felt guilty for her actions, she had said no.

 

She had looked straight at Laura Hale during the trails and said, _“I’m not sorry and I’d do it again in a fucking instant.”_

 

“That wasn’t your fault,” Stiles whispers and Derek is shaking his head before Stiles has even finished. Stiles brings Derek close, lets his head rest on his chest and he drags his fingers through his dark hair.

 

And he lets Derek cry.

 

\--

 

“Kate had a grandfather who hated us as much as she did,” Derek tells him on another night as they both listen to the rain outside.

 

“What happened to him?” Stiles asks, rubbing Derek’s back like usual.

 

“Laura killed him,” he says simply.

 

And somehow, Stiles isn’t surprised.

 

\--

 

“Someone took me right before the fire started, they said no one would miss me, and they left a body in place of mine. I can remember that much now,” his voice is distant, and his eyes look even farther away, but Stiles is patient.

 

“They kept me the whole time, drugged up, would beat me if I asked for my family whenever I was lucid. After sometime, I just stopped asking. They told me I was the reason they had died, that if I wasn’t like _this_ . . . that I was the problem.”

 

“Like what, Derek?”

 

Derek turns to him, eyes glowing red before they fade to a freshwater green. Stiles’ heart spikes, a tremor runs up his spine, but again, _somehow_ , he isn’t surprised.

 

“They hunted my family, killed everyone they could. And then kept me alive to lure anyone else in, anyone who saw an opportunity for the territory.”

 

“And then Laura killed them,” Stiles supplies and Derek nods his head.

 

“She killed all of them. Before I could recognize who she was, why she was saving me, she told me to come here before she died,” he looks up, sadness in his eyes, but his face is controlled, he’s gotten better at talking about this, but Stiles doubts it’s gotten easier for him to say it.

 

“I’m glad you did,” Stiles tells him, wholeheartedly, because he is.

 

And Derek nods his head, because he’s glad too.

 

\--

 

Stiles tells the Sheriff after he gets Derek’s permission. And Stiles is a little offended that he doesn’t look surprised.

 

“You _knew_ ?!” he nearly shrieks and makes an immediate note not to be the Sheriff’s personal barista on the nights he works doubles. Plus, introducing even _more_ vegetables into his already bland diet.

 

“Hold on, Stiles, I didn’t know the whole story--”

 

“But you knew most of it!”

 

“I didn’t know Derek was alive--” he tries to offer, but Stiles doesn’t want to hear any of it.

 

“But you knew there were werewolves running around everywhere,” his hands go spastic above his head, “don’t you think that for my _personal_ safety, you would have told me that tiny detail?”

 

The Sheriff takes a long gulp of his coffee, cold Stiles is sure, and he sighs. “It’s not like it would have done any good, apparently nothing can keep out werewolves from this house,” he gives Derek the side eye and the brunette shrinks a little in his seat.

 

Stiles tries not to smile at how adorable that is.

 

“But you still _knew_ ,” Stiles continues, but the Sheriff raises a hand to stop him.

 

“Stiles, I’m going to be late so let’s just settle this before you go off on another tangent to try and guilt trip me. Derek,” he looks at him and waits for a reply.

 

“Yes, sir?”

 

“You’re staying, and Stiles,” he looks to him now.

 

“Yeah . . . ?”

 

“You’re going to start working nights again, don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

 

Stiles blushes furiously, but he doesn’t argue. It’s the end of the discussion anyway.

 

\--

 

It’s easier with the Sheriff knowing, Stiles doesn’t have to wash Derek’s clothes separately, he doesn’t have to make up the bed in the guest room every time Derek would leave in the morning, he doesn’t have to explain why the Sheriff’s old clothes are materializing from their place in the back of his closet.

 

On the rare days when his father is home before him, Stiles finds Derek and the Sheriff at the kitchen table, talking about something having to do with his past, and they always stop abruptly, Derek notices Stiles before the Sheriff does now that the alarm is deemed useless.

 

It doesn’t bother Stiles, Derek always tells him at night anyway. He’s suppose to sleep in the guest room, _because he’s a guest Stiles_ , but after the Sheriff is asleep Stiles waits for Derek to sneak into his room, soundless and as swift as the animal he takes after.

 

Derek is starting to remember more, the particular strand of wolfsbane he had been administered is out of his system completely, but the effects of it have been prolonged. Derek thinks it’s because of how long he had been under the influence of the drug, a lot of his memory is still missing from him, but he says he remembers the most important parts, he remembers scraps his childhood, his family, some bits he may never recover, but for the most part, he’s content with what he has.

 

\--

 

Stiles asks him why he hadn’t told him sooner, Derek looks up from his bowl of cereal and quirks an eyebrow.

 

“About you being a werewolf,” he clarifies, waiting for a response.

 

Derek shrugs, something he’s starting to do a lot more, and Stiles figures it’s better than his glaring.

 

“I thought that you would figure it out eventually.”

 

“I’m sorry, exactly when would I have pulled out werewolf as a definition for you?” he gawks and watches as Derek rolls his eyes, another thing he’s beginning to favor.

 

“You had some sort of idea I wasn’t exactly human,” he retorts, smugly, and Stiles is beginning to hate how well Derek is able to read him.

 

“ _Perhaps_ , but that still doesn’t mean--”

 

“I didn’t want to scare you,” Derek admits, that shuts up Stiles instantly. He has his eyes cast down, spoon moving around chunks of sodden cereal, shoulders hunched.

 

“You don’t,” he sets a hand on top of Derek’s, making him stop, making him look up at Stiles.

 

“I might,” Derek admits again, voice a little more stern, like he’s preparing Stiles.

 

“The scariest I’ve ever seen you is before you have your coffee, and if that ever changes, I’ll let you know,” he squeezes Derek’s hand, he feels him squeeze back.

 

“Besides, you think my dad would ever let you hurt me,” Derek looks a little pale as he shakes his head at the comment, and Stiles almost thinks the Sheriff already scared him straight.

 

Who is he kidding, of course he had.

 

\--

 

But not even the Sheriff’s words of delicate caution could keep Derek completely in check. Of that, Stiles is a little thrilled.

 

Derek is careful when they first begin, it’s almost like he’s just as scared and careful as when they had first met, but he’s timid in a way that’s endearing, in a way that makes Stiles’ heart swell instead of break.

 

Derek lets his nose brush right against the column of Stiles’ throat, leaves a trail of sensation that follows with a puff of his humid breath. Stiles shifts a little in his place at the treatment, Derek cradling the side of Stiles’ head in one hand, the other balancing his weight against the bed where they’re sitting. Stiles can feel the grain of Derek’s short beard each time he does a pass at his throat, breathing in the scent of it, rubbing his own on Stiles’ skin. Derek had once told him that he would do something similar with his family as a way of bonding, Stiles had stupidly asked him how this was any different.

 

“ _Because I’m marking you_ ,” Derek had told him, right against the grain of his skin.

 

Now, Stiles lets him do as he pleases, and when they have hours before the Sheriff comes home, Derek lays Stiles down on the bed, gets right between his legs, and breathes him in until he’s had his fill. After that, he sucks at the very skin he was treasuring only moments before. The air always changes around them after that, it becomes hot and thin, Stiles grabs for the material of Derek’s shirt, bunches it in his hands each time Derek comes away from his puckered skin, lips glossy and bruised.

 

Derek had done this to him countless times, rubbing at his skin, bruising it with his teeth, laving it with his tongue as a gentle apology. And all it took was for Derek to torture Stiles just once more like this, with his broad, warm hands, with the way they would run through his hair, would sweep against his hip bones whenever Derek would be brave enough to let his fingers roam under Stiles’ shirt. He’s actually surprised it had taken him so long to hold Derek’s face in his hands and _kiss_ him.

 

Derek had moaned at the contact, low and long, and Stiles thought he could come in his pants just from that sound alone. Stiles had sunken further on the bed, pulling Derek to hover over him, caging him in as they kissed, deep and sloppy and perfect.

 

Derek had jumped off of Stiles at the first sounds of the front door opening and Stiles couldn’t even be upset, going into a fit of laughter at how terrified Derek looked, shirt wrinkled, hair a mess, lips cherry red and swollen.

 

He looked beautiful and if Stiles hadn’t figured it out already, he knew he loved him.

 

\--

 

Derek stays longer than Laura, it’s something of a mess to override a death certificate on a closed case, but the Sheriff pulls some strings as quietly as possible. Derek gets work in the industrial district, someone named Boyd helps land him the job and he also enrolls on online courses to receive his GED. After a few more weeks, he tells Stiles that Boyd is looking for another roommate to help pay for the rent, and Derek thinks it will be a good fit.

 

“Do both you understand each other with eyebrow wiggles and glares?” Derek shoves him a little with his shoulder at the comment, but he’s smiling nonetheless.

 

“He’s a werewolf,” he explains, finger rubbing a gentle circle into Stiles’ palm, “so is his roommate, they were both bitten at around the same time. They’re their own pack.”

 

“Are you going to join theirs then?” Stiles asks, can’t seeming to hide the way sadness creeps in his voice.

 

“Not exactly,” Derek begins, “I already have one,” he smiles.

 

Stiles snorts. “Who, me?” Derek nods.

 

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, none too smartly. Derek laughs at him, carefree and gorgeous, then he kisses him, dizzy and slow for good measure.

 

\--

 

Derek doesn’t have much to his name, but the Sheriff bids him farewell all the same.

 

“You can come back anytime, so long as I’m home,” he shakes Derek’s hand firm and Stiles knows he’s trying to flex underneath his uniform.

 

“Oh my _god_ ,” he whines in the background.

 

“Thank you, Sheriff,” Derek smiles, voice so sincere that it makes his father’s face break composure just the slightest bit.

 

The Sheriff clears his throat, he pats Derek on the back, keeps his lips tightly between his teeth, and walks back inside the house. He glances back just once and Stiles shakes his head.

 

“He loves you, I think he loves you more than me at this point,” he complains, feels Derek’s arms wrap around him from the back, his chin resting on his shoulder.

 

“Ask him if you can borrow another three hundred for your Jeep and I’ll agree with you on his favorite,” he teases, kissing Stiles’ cheek before he recoils, already knowing Stiles will try to punch him in the shoulder.

 

“Well joke’s on him because you’re totally going to ruin me the second we get to your swanky pad,” he turns on the ignition, the Blueberry roaring to life, Derek doesn’t protest a word.

 

\--

 

Of course it doesn’t go like Stiles had imagined, and it doesn’t happen for a few more weeks, but it’s something worth waiting for.

 

It’s happens in the afternoon, on a day Stiles doesn’t have classes or a shift at the store he’s now a supervisor at. Derek has the day off and he finished his GED quicker than Stiles could have ever believed. There’s nowhere either of them have to be, no distractions from the outside, nowhere to hide in the glow of the afternoon sun.

 

Derek enters him after Stiles is ready and glistening, after he rode back onto the fingers Derek had inside him, stretching and filling, after Stiles had told him he was ready, but Derek kept going just to be safe. Derek had gotten between the legs that opened for him, he got close, took hold of himself and pushed, slowly until he was seated flush with Stiles. Stiles had his fingers bunched in the sheets below and he didn’t make a noise until he could feel Derek’s thighs hit the back of his.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathed, anything more eloquent going over his head at the moment. Derek rubs the outside of his thighs, and he asks Stiles if he wants to stop.

 

“No, just,” he looks up at him, green eyes waiting and open, “just go slow, okay?”

 

And Derek does. He goes slow until Stiles tells him to go faster, to go harder, to touch him, to kiss him. Derek holds onto him when it gets to be too much, when something crackles inside his core, blooms and bleeds warm and rich out of him. He shudders through it, buries his face right into the crook of Stiles’ neck, breathes him in because he’s perfect and he loves him and he never thought it would feel like this. After everything, he never believed he _could_ feel like this.

 

Stiles shivers when Derek pulls out and then he moans, guttural and dirty when Derek gets his mouth around him, he takes him down as far as he can, slides in as many fingers as Stiles can take and waits for thighs to shake, for fingers to weave into his hair, for come to hit Derek’s throat, hot and bitter. He’s still shaking when Derek kisses up his stomach, painting stripes on his skin, touching every inch he can along the way. Stiles kisses Derek like he’s starved for it, like they’ve been apart for ages.

 

They don’t speak. Derek nuzzles his face into Stiles’ neck, licks at it to taste the sweat that formed there, and Stiles twitches, skin still buzzing and hot. They kiss slowly after that, Derek nipping at Stiles’ lower lip, Stiles letting his tongue linger with Derek’s. Neither moves besides the barest stroke with relaxed fingers.

 

Stiles looks at him and Derek looks back.

 

Stiles smiles and Derek mirrors.

 

\--

 

Scott finds out a few weeks later, purely on accident, and Stiles feels terrible.

 

“You were shacking up for _months_ and you never even told me?” His eyes are big and brown, betrayal evident on his face, and the fact that his hair has grown out again to look forever messed and soft is not helping. Scott is holding onto his grocery basket for dear life and is waiting for an explanation, behind Stiles he can hear Derek retreating to the exit of the store.

 

“We weren’t _shacking up_ , Scott. This isn’t a 90s romcom--”

 

“Evasive maneuver--” Scott interrupts and Stiles knows this is _bad_.

 

Stiles sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck that has grown hot with embarrassment and shame. It was hard enough telling the Sheriff that Derek existed, albeit the guy already _knew_ , and even harder telling him he and Derek were a _thing_. Somehow, this is harder.

 

“Okay, in fairness, my dad didn’t even know--”

 

“Oh, _bullshit_ Stiles, your dad doesn’t know half the things you’re up to. Is he a famous model? Is that why you couldn’t tell your _best friend_ you met someone? I mean, I know I’ve been busy with work and school but--”

 

“He’s,” Stiles begins, but not sure where to start. He can’t tell Scott the whole story, not yet anyway, not until he talks to Derek. Even then, there’s a lot that’s private, a lot that’s only between him and Derek. And he wants to keep it that way, not because he doesn’t trust Scott, but because Stiles had grown with Derek in a way he thinks he’ll never be able to describe. He loves Derek, so deeply and selflessly that it probably should terrify him, but it’s so welcoming and gentle and calm, he could never find it in his heart to be afraid of that.

 

So, that’s where he begins.

 

“I love him, Scott,” he says earnestly, Scott’s face goes through some motions, but eventually it softens to a puddle.

 

He rolls his eyes after a while. “I already knew _that_ , what’s his name?”

 

Stiles smiles, chest growing big and warm. “Derek.”

 

“Where’d you meet him?”

 

Stiles thinks about that for a bit. “He came to fix my window, the lock hasn’t worked for a while.”

 

\--

 

Derek remembers more as time passes. He once told Stiles that his head was a mess those first initial weeks, scent could have lead him to the Stilinksi house, but Laura’s directions were direct and clear and he followed those after sometime.

 

He didn’t know who he was when he had woken up, clothes wet from the rain, dirt and grass cradling his body beneath. The putrid smell of blood and decay were close, and he cowered away from it when his eyes finally came into focus. He remembered the night previous with enough clarity, his handlers moving him to another spot on the preserve, routine, then a flash of red, guns going off in the chaos, growls and snarls and flesh tearing. Derek had been pushed on the ground by someone and for the first time in a long time, he was frozen in fear. His handlers were killed right in front of him, limbs torn off in a rage by a stranger, she looked over at him from time to time and he didn’t know why.

 

He could hear sirens in the distance, could only hear two heartbeats after the scene had settled, they were both slow and lazy. The stranger told him an address and names. Then she screamed, agonizing and long, and then it stopped.

 

Something surged inside Derek, a hot wave of emotion and _power_ and it rendered him immobile as it continued to shoot through his veins, scorching and painful. He stayed there for sometime, curled on the ground as the sirens could be heard closer in their approach, and he listened to the last heartbeat give out. Then he ran.

 

For days he drifted across the span of the preserve, much deeper than civilians trek, and on the sixth day he remembered who he was, who _she_ had been, and for a long time after that he wished he hadn’t.

 

Memories trickled into his head often, but he couldn’t piece them together, they were just scenes that held no meaning. He could remember running on a field, the heaviness of a helmet on a head, the perfume of someone pressed close, the smell of a house. It wasn’t until he looked past it, could _remember_ why any of it was significant, only then did he realize they weren’t just glimpses of something, they had been his life. Running on the football field, his helmet snug and hot, Kate’s perfume as she moved above him, the smell of his house, of his _pack_.

 

That desperate need to remember lead him to the Stilinski house, through a window and into a hallway he had never seen before. As soon as he could smell the faint trace of his pack, the scent heavy and lingering in a particular room, he heard footsteps. The heartbeat was just the slightest bit accelerated, but it picked up to a harsh flutter as soon as brown eyes landed on Derek. Stiles was the first person Derek had come into contact with for months and he stared at him with fear and shock, the scent overpowered everything with a wave of bitterness. It was terrifying, and just like before, Derek was frozen in fear, eyes locked on the boy in front of him.

 

He doesn’t remember where he found the courage to run, but he found himself going back, chasing that scent that haunted his memories, the last tangible proof of a family from his memories. And Stiles helped him, lead him exactly to the very spot, and welcomed him back each time.

 

Derek still has nightmares, can still see the faces of his handlers, can still feel the way the chains dug into his wrists, cold and irritating. He can remember the way flesh tasted between his fangs, the way blood dripped between his lips, down his throat. He can’t remember everyone he killed under the command of his handlers, but sometimes the guilt wracks him into something damn near suicidal.

 

Stiles is always there, just like in the beginning, and he tells him he’ll always be there. Sometimes Derek doesn’t believe him, but when he wakes from his nightmares, screaming and frantic, he hears a soft voice, a familiar heartbeat, the smell of pack, and that’s enough.

 

And when it’s not, he deals with it the best he can. Still, Stiles is there, like promised he would be.  

 

Like right now, he’s slumped against Boyd’s secondhand lazy boy, reading a book for one of his classes. His glasses have slipped down his nose and his fingers are playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. He’s wearing one of Derek’s shirts, a deep green flannel, and it hangs on him a little, the sight more than enough to churn something wonderful in Derek’s chest that he’s known for a long time.

 

He walks over to him, kisses the top of his head, rubbing his nose into the softness of his hair. He hears Stiles snort beneath him at the attention, but he doesn’t shoo him away to focus. Derek lets his hand travel down the length of Stiles’ arm, down until he reaches his deft fingers. They flex and wrap themselves around Derek’s own, out of habit, but it isn’t enough for Stiles to lose his focus. Derek smiles at that and begins to pull away.

 

Stiles looks up at him, fixing his glasses with his other hand, book abandoned on his clothed stomach.

 

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, voice quiet like a secret.

 

Derek bends down to kiss him, soft and tender, trying his best to wear off the concerned expression on Stiles’ face. It works for the most part, Stiles is flushed and dopey when he draws back.

 

“I’m fine,” he promises, and kisses Stiles for better measure.

 

“Did you remember something?” he asks, face still a little tense, knowing that Derek seeks him out for comfort when new memories find their way out of his mind.

 

“Something like that,” Derek smiles and Stiles narrows his eyes behind his thick glasses.

 

“You’ll tell me when you’re ready?” he asks, he always does just in case Derek doesn’t want to talk about it.

 

Derek nods.

 

“I will,” Derek tells him.

 

\--

 

He does.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


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